


Chemistry Partners

by prettysailorsoldier



Series: Johnlock Drabbles [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: High School, M/M, Teenagers, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:27:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23831587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Johnlock Drabbles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717159
Comments: 13
Kudos: 189





	Chemistry Partners

“I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No. Nope. Can’t.”

“Yes you  _ can _ , just like we practiced.”

“That was you, not Sherlock bloody Holmes!” John waved a hand down the corridor to where the man in question was bent over his bookbag, swapping textbooks into his locker. “It’s easy asking you out.”

“Cheers,” Greg deadpanned, but smiled when John rolled his eyes with a huff.

“You  _ know _ what I-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greg dismissed with a wave, “but the words aren’t any different. You just go up and say ‘Hey, this project has been a lot of fun. Wanna see if  _ we  _ have chemistry?’” He clapped his hands together, stretching them out to his sides as he tipped his head with a grin. “Eh?”

John’s shoulders slumped.

“Alright, so maybe you leave the pun out of it,” Greg muttered, shrugging. “I don’t get it, mate, why are you so twisted up over this one? You’re the  _ last _ person I expected to ever need dating advice.”

John sighed, his locker jangling as he leaned back against it, tipping his head at the ceiling. “I don’t know,” he said, skull grinding into the cool metal as he shook his head. “It just feels different.”

Greg let out a shrill croon. “Ooo, is our Johnny Boy in  _ love _ !” He leaned forward, making kissing noises in the air until John whacked him in the sternum, sending him into a fit of coughs.

“ _ No _ ,” he said firmly, “I just...don’t wanna screw anything up. We’ve gotten to be good friends.”

“So I noticed,” Greg muttered, massaging his chest. “I’ve damn near been usurped. Two of you watching movies into the sunset together.”

“I tried to call you!”

“I’m kidding,” Greg chuckled, nudging him on the arm. “I know my best friend card doesn’t expire. We have something pure.” He lifted a hand to his heart, sniffling with melodrama, a grin cracking over his face when John snorted. “Seriously though, just march over there and say- Sherlock!”

John blinked at the overhead light, dropping his chin with a frown. “Sherlock what?”

“Greg,” a low voice greeted at his right, and John jumped, slamming back against the locker. Sherlock’s forehead furrowed under rain-frazzled curls, blue eyes sweeping John’s face. “Sorry,” he murmured, glancing between them, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

John shook his head, straightening up and trying to regain some of his dignity. “No, you-you didn’t.”

“We were actually just talking about you,” Greg oh-so-helpfully interjected, beaming back at John’s glare. “John wanted to ask you something.”

Sherlock turned to him, brow lifting, John barely getting his mouth open before Greg chimed in again.

“Oh, is that the time!?” he exclaimed, looking down at a watch that wasn’t there. “I’ve gotta get to French.”

“That’s not for another half hour,” Sherlock said, checking his actual timepiece, and Greg shrugged, backing away from them toward the stairwell.

“Yeah, but sometimes Ms. Ward gets there early.” He winked, darting away from them as Sherlock chuckled, John trying to swallow the knot in his throat.

“Anyway,” he muttered, shaking his head and looking to John, “what did you want to ask?”

John’s lips parted, a croaking sound emanating from the back of his throat. “Nothing really,” he muttered, mind scrambling. “Just...wondered how you were getting on with the conclusion.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, a pinch in his brow John might have interpreted as disappointment if he’d had longer than a blink to examine it, “fine. I can email it to you tonight, if you want to look it over.”

“No, I- Friday’s fine.” He shook his head. “I trust you,” he added with a smile, trying to undercut the awkwardness he knew he was creating.

Sherlock smiled, tucking his chin and adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “Well, I have class, but do you want to get together after and look over everything one more time?” he asked, glancing at his watch again. “If you don’t mind hanging around. You’re done for the day, aren’t you?”

John nodded. “Yeah, but I don’t mind.” He shrugged, patting the messenger bag on his hip. “Give me a chance to start on some homework.”

“Alright,” Sherlock replied. “Wanna meet in the lounge at half 1?”

John wrinkled his nose, shaking his head. “Naw, too stuffy. How ‘bout that cafe on the corner? I’ll try to snag a table before the lunch crowd comes in.”

Sherlock twitched a shoulder. “Works for me. See ya then,” he said, and, with a flick of his wrist, turned away and started down the corridor, disappearing into the crowd of milling students.

John sighed, falling back against his locker with a  _ clang _ .

Why were study dates so much easier than the real thing?

He snuck into the cafe just before the lunch rush of businessmen and chatting mothers, snagging a small table in the corner, far from the autumn draft whistling through the door. Pulling out his laptop, he made a show of looking busy, idly clicking through pages of their A-level chemistry project while his gaze truly lingered on the door, awaiting a tall dark figure. He finished his first coffee within the hour, the crowd dwindling as he returned to the counter, keeping an eye on his things and joining the line for the register.

The bell over the door chimed behind him, and he turned, finding Sherlock flipping a wind-ruffled curl out of his eyes, smiling as he found John’s gaze. 

“In the corner,” John said simply, pointing toward his open laptop. “I’ve already got the project up. What do you want?”

Sherlock frowned, and then shook his head. “I can get it,” he said, but John only smiled, waving a hand.

“No sense us both waiting in line. You can get the next one.”

A corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted, and he nodded, tucking the half-drawn wallet back into his pocket. “Alright. Just a black coffee, two sugars. Maybe a medium?” he asked, as if for permission, and John smiled, shooing him away.

“Go guard my computer; it’s new,” he ordered, and Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head but obeying.

John watched as he scuttled between the chairs, dropping his bag beside John’s on the patterned tile floor. He gently lifted John’s computer, turning it to face his chair, and braced an elbow on the wood, balancing his chin on his palm as he began clicking through their project, brow wrinkling in thought.

His phone buzzed not a moment too soon, his staring about to cross the creepy threshold, and John shuffled up a place in line, wriggling his mobile from his pocket.

_ Did you ask him yet? _

John rolled his eyes, swiping out a retort.

**_No. No thanks to you_ **

_ I was creating an opportunity _

**_You were creating an ulcer_ **

_ Agree to disagree _

John huffed, tucking the phone back in his pocket as he reached the register, completing his order and moving to the edge of the counter to wait, Greg sending a few more messages in the interim.

_ It’s gonna get harder the longer you wait. Half term is coming up. Who knows what will happen then. _

_ He goes yachting with his family in the Mediterranean. Meets a tan young stranger who’s worth millions in olive oil. _

_ They float off into the sunset eating said olive oil. _

John chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

**_Are you just hungry or harboring secret gay fantasies I should know about?_ **

_ We’re all a little gay for olive oil millionaires _

John snorted, turning it into a cough as the woman waiting beside him glared.

**_I don’t think we all are Gregory_ **

_ Quit trying to change the subject _

**_I’m not, I’m trying to love and support you in your gay olive oil dreams_ **

_ You’ve just gotta rip the bandaid off _

**_Would you go to uni down there or would you two try the long distance thing?_ **

_ Just ask him out. Then one way or the other you’ll know. _

**_Either way you should move there after graduation, give me an escape from winter_ **

_ You’re not invited to my gay olive oil villa until you ask out Sherlock Holmes _

**_But I was best man at your wedding!_ **

_ I gotta go, we’re heading out on our yacht: Extra Virgin. Ask him out!!!! _

John sighed, moving to tuck the phone back into his pocket when it buzzed a final time.

_ And don’t forget the details _

“John?” The barista dropped two cups to the counter, John turning his smile up with a nod.

“Thank you,” he bade, sweeping them up and making his way to their table, scanning the sides of the cups for distinguishing marks. “Alright, I  _ think _ this one’s yours,” he said, hovering a cup down at Sherlock’s shoulder, “but, if it tastes like 90% milk, it’s probably my latte.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, John looking past the cup to find the man blinking up at him, cheeks pink and eyes wide, his lips pressed together in a tight line.

“Are you alright?” he asked, lowering Sherlock’s cup to the table and glancing at the page of their project currently displayed on the screen. “Okay, the graphs  _ are _ pretty bad,” he admitted with a tilt of his head. “I haven’t figured out what all the buttons do yet; I’ve only had PCs before.”

“No, it- It’s not-” Sherlock muttered, closing his mouth as a swallow rolled down the front of his throat. He looked away, turning back to the computer, his finger sliding over the mousepad to click on a background window.

John’s fingers forgot their job, the coffee sliding a couple centimeters in his grip before his brain reestablished communication, his heart being a little slower on the uptake, stalled in his chest as he read through his conversation with Greg. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, his tongue undecided on if it wanted to lie or scream.

Sherlock’s head turned in his peripheral vision, but John couldn’t look at him, couldn’t move, the blood rushing to his face making him dizzy enough already. 

“I- Er...” Sherlock swallowed again, the  _ click _ of it snapping in John’s ears. “We don’t go yachting,” he muttered, and John blinked, the words taking a moment to penetrate the fog in his brain, “and...I’m free on Saturday.”

His heart kicked against his ribs. “What?” John murmured, dropping his gaze, and Sherlock smiled, cheeks darkening anew as he looked down at his hands twisting in his lap.

“Well,” he said, shrugging a shoulder, eyes glinting when he lifted his chin, sending John’s heart into cartwheels, “I do owe you a coffee.”


End file.
